


Rattled

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Feysand [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Velaris, artist! Feyre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: Prompt: I was trying to take a sneaky picture of you because I told my friend about the hot guy on the train and she wanted to see but you totally noticed and yeah this is awkward





	1. The Muse

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one shot and turned into a fluffy 3-shot. I hope you enjoy some Feysand AU! Let me know what you think :)

Shooting a furtive glance toward her slumbering companion, Feyre bit her lip and tugged her cellphone from the pocket of her messenger bag.

**I think I found my muse**

There’s a delay in reply, which Feyre fills by scrolling through Tumblr and Instagram, grinning faintly at a few kind comments and tags on her latest piece, which is a misleading characterization unless one considers ‘latest’ to mean over six months.  Still, its good for her ego. 

She’s halfway through reading a ranting conspiracy theory, which managed to connect heelys and Roswell, when an alert drops down at the top of her screen from Mor.

**_Oo.  intriguing.  is he hot?_ **

Smirking despite herself, Feyre opens the message to respond.

**I never said it was a he**

**I could be talking about a non-human for all you know**

Three dots appear almost immediately and she settles back against the worn but pleasantly clean faux velvety seat, sipping at her fountain drink only to be met with a mouthful of watered down Sprite.  _Gross_.

**_pretty sure thats illegal_ **

**_also that doesnt sound like a denial to me…_ **

Rolling her eyes, Feyre answers back,

**ew thanks for making that gross**

**and fine.  it’s a guy.  but this isn’t about hotness.  artists have muses that they remain platonic with**

**_mhmmm.  so is this going to be a fling or are we talking long term life partners?_ **

**_whats your stance on marriage as an institution?_ **

Feyre lets out a snort at that, then quickly checks to be sure she hasn’t woken sleeping beauty.  Because he is…beautiful that is.  _Purely_ from an artistic perspective.  This isn’t romantic attraction.  She _definitely_ didn’t think about mouthing her way across his sharp jaw bone while his hands gripped-

**i hate you**

As if Mor had expected that answer, she fires back almost immediately

**no u dont.  and send pics**

Choking on a Craisin, Feyre nearly drops her phone, fumbling it back from her lap and shoots back a quick text.

  1. **I’m not a stalker**



**_just be stealthy and no one will know._ **

**no**

**_if u dont do it ill…_ **

Face lighting triumphantly, Feyre interrupts with a message of her own.

**Surrender.  you’ve got nothing on me**

**_oh fine.  just send plz?  Az is working late…_ **

Allowing herself one final eye roll for good measure, she switches to her camera app, not Snap Chat, if she’s going to do this, she’s doing it right.  Which means a permanent copy for herself too.  For purely artistic purposes.  _Shut up._

Normally she wouldn’t give in to Mor, but she was still feeling kind of guilty for moving away indefinitely.  Although not too guilty since her moving out had opened space for Mor’s boyfriend Azriel to move in.

It had all been _too_ perfect not to take advantage of it.  The job popping up a few hours away in a gorgeous gallery _right_ as she was leaving her job, which had followed what she termed the most painstaking break up of all time.  Alright it’s not a catchy name, but it gets the point across.

Anyway, there was enough time between the mushroom cloud break up and quitting her job that she knew this wasn’t a weird rebound thing or whatever.  And then Mor and Azriel _finally_ got together so it was great.  All loose ends tied up.  Except she was moving to a new city alone and she had no idea if she even _liked_ it there.

She’d only spent a few hours in Velaris, but it had seemed beautiful, even though most of her impressions were through the tall, impeccably clean glass windows at the front of the gallery during her interview a month earlier.

But she was confident she could find some way to be happy.  And part of her knew she was at a point where she needed to prove to herself that she _could_ be on her own, could handle it, try something new.

Dragged from her musings by an insistent buzz, Feyre glanced down at the now lit lock screen.

**_wheres my pic_ **

Snickering as she resumed her task, Feyre re-opened the camera app and checked once more to see the steady breathing of her sleeping companion, trying to not feel creepy about taking his picture.  But it was only for her and Mor.  And he’s in a pretty public place…

Gritting her teeth, she casually lifted her phone, waiting for it to refocus after the train jostled her a little.  Just as she makes sure there won’t be any obnoxiously loud sound effects when she takes the picture, _honestly who needs that_ , she takes the photo and sends it off when a low purring voice fills the compartment, “I’d tell you to take a picture if you’re going to stare, but it seems you’re way ahead of me.”

Eyes widening in what a non-mortified Feyre would term a comical manner, she immediately drops her phone to her lap, preparing her plan of action, “What are you talking about?”  _Deny. Deny. Deny._

His lids slip open, revealing _too_ gorgeous violet irises, “I’m talking about the picture you just took of me, darling.”

“I-”

Before she gets a chance to answer, her phone buzzes again and she sighs in relief, while her seat mate smirks flirtatiously but busies himself with his own phone.

  1. **_my.  god._**



The three dots appear again and linger, which means Mor is likely crafting a long winded fanfiction of her life where Feyre pins lavender eyes to the cushy seat and has her way with him.  _Not a bad idea…except he thinks you’re a crazy person._

**I am going to murder you.**

**He woke up.**

**He knows.**

**that I took a picture**

**seriously I hope you enjoyed your few weeks with Az because**

Her text rant pauses when Mor cuts back in with a message much shorter than she expected given the build up, one that’s much less scintillating than she’d hoped.

**_thats my cousin_ **

At that, Feyre nearly reached down and pinched herself because this _had_ to be a dream.  Or a nightmare to be more accurate.Which might seem like an exaggeration without context.

So there was the bad break up months ago, and Feyre was pretty cut up, but she was working through it.  If throwing herself into work and not painting or drawing or even doodling on napkins - as was her usual way - counted as working through it.

Objectively, she could see how an outsider might’ve thought she was floundering.  But that didn’t justify trying to set her up on blind dates with out of town cousins.

Which brings us back to the nightmare.  She’d effectively just told the friend she lovingly termed “Meddling Morrigan” that she was in fact right and her cousin _was_ her type, which would make her utterly insufferable.

Not to say that Mor forced anything.  For someone so invested in Feyre’s personal life, she was surprisingly easy going and willing to let her have her space, although she tended to object loudly to what _she’d_ termed “Feyre’s Future Fuck-Ups.”  And while she admitted the alliteration was impressive, Feyre was not amused.

Her phone continued to vibrate with more text messages from Mor, containing lots of capital letters and exclamation points and hideous typos before she put it on silent and shoved it into her bag.

“Are you done having a melt down?”

Feyre narrowed her eyes, “Excuse me?”

Lounging back as if the velvety bench was his throne, Feyre’s companion eyed her contemplatively before a smirk tickled the corners of his lips, “I pointed out that you were trying to take a picture of me and then you started furiously texting an as yet unidentified friend.”

“It could be for work.”

“But it’s not, is it?”

Growling Feyre muttered under her breath, “ _Prick_. Meddling Morrigan can suck it.”

Tall dark and snarky’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, “Sorry, did you say Morrigan?”

Feyre’s head dropped back against the seat dejectedly as she huffed, “ _Yes_.”

“Is that why my cousin is suddenly very concerned with my whereabouts?”

“ _God_ your family is so difficult,” Feyre mumbled, forehead now pressed to the sun-warmed window as the train cut its path through the wildflower-strewn countryside.

“If it makes you feel any better, I already knew you found me attractive. Pre-stalker picture.”

Folding her arms across her chest angrily, Feyre scowled, “Who says the picture wasn’t captioned ‘look: a drooling homunculus’,”

He snorted at that, and if Feyre was a more honest person, she would’ve admitted her chest warmed at the thought of making him laugh, but she wasn’t, so she didn’t. Leaning forward, he braced his gloriously chiseled forarms across his knees, “First, homunculus is creative, but not really fitting for someone of my size and build. So ‘A’ for effort. And second, I heard you, when you came in. You let out this little moan and said ‘Oh my God, it’s beautiful.”

Letting out a bark of a laugh, Feyre shot back, “I’m fairly certain that never happened,” _nevermind the fact that the phrase ‘most beautiful man I’ve ever seen’ echoed through my head_ , “and even if I had said it, I could’ve been talking about the view.”

He hummed in thought, “Right. I’ve heard many people write sonnets about crowded train stations filled with screaming children and angry elderly people.”

“ _Prick_.”

“ _Darling_.”

“Don’t call me that,” Feyre managed to grind out between gritted teeth.

“I make no promises. But your name would at least give me options,” he smirked back.

“How about not talking anymore. That’s always an option,” Feyre quipped with forced airiness as she tore her gaze away from his.

“Mine’s Rhysand.”

Wordlessly, she tugged a half-read, dog-eared paper back from her messenger bag and began reading. Or at least attempted to. After reading the same sentence at least twelve times she glanced up, where her fellow passenger, Mor’s cousin, Rhysand, was watching her with a mild expression on his face as he leaned back into the corner of his seat comfortably.

“Feyre.”

Blinking twice, he repeated her name, and she tried not to shiver at the way it dripped off his tongue, eyes flashing with triumph and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. But she grudgingly admitted, at least to herself, that she liked the way it sounded, the way he said it, _Feyre_ , like he’d always dreamt of saying her name and this was some sort of culmination. Or a beginning.

Fighting back a snort at her surprisingly flowery internal monologue, _get a grip_ , she rifled through her bag for a snack, only to come up depressingly empty handed except for a half eaten and extremely pulverized granola bar from who knows when.

Apparently catching on to her predicament, Rhysand stood and offered her a hand, “Care to hit up the snack bar? My treat?”

Mentally weighing the pros and cons, Feyre shook herself and let a small smile cross her face, “Sure. But only for the food.”

Rhysand held his hands up bracingly at her quirked brow as she continued, “And I can pay for myself. Don’t want to give you any ideas.”

“Too late for that Feyre, darling.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Who's stalking whom?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You just can't escape some people

Feyre offers a perfunctory wave to her early bird neighbor as the greying man stooped with some difficulty to retrieve his morning paper. Turning her attention back to the task at hand, she shifts her soft leather bag higher on her shoulder and carefully holds her steaming travel mug aloft while her other hand ensures the double locks on her front door slides into place. _I’ll see you again in around fourteen hours my lovely bed_.

Tossing her keys into their customary pocket in her purse, Feyre blindly walks the path that would bring her to the just sun kissed streets still empty of the early morning rush.

Thursdays are often early mornings, as one of her duties is to arrive in time to accept all new shipments and oversee loans to other galleries and the occasional art museum, plus the odd sale to dealers and collectors. Despite her distaste for waking with the sun, there’s something beautiful about being one of the first to see Velaris as the calling birds shoot across the sky, eager squirrels skittering over the cobblestones, and the first blush of fresh baked bread filling the new day.

Pulled from her musings by a bright chirp, Feyre shuffles around the center of her admittedly disorganized purse to find her phone and a waiting message from Mor.

**_are u sure u dont want it?_ **

**_im going on record saying this is the most stubborn u have ever been_ **

Rolling her eyes Feyre shoots off a quick answer – **yes, busybody. I’m sure**

This had become Mor’s new way to greet Feyre when they texted, or called, or one time sent actual paper letters that she had paid for postage to harass her poor hard working friend into accepting Rhysand’s phone number.

And it’s not that she doesn’t want it. Because at least some small – or perhaps very large and enamored – part of her _really_ wants it and _wants_ to rip open the buttons on that carefully tailored black dress shirt that hugged his –

It’s not like things hadn’t been heading in that direction; but they got separated at the train snack bar and then she’d been ushered from the train by a conductor _determined_ to keep on schedule, barely giving her a chance to grab her bags from her depressingly empty compartment.

She’d managed to tamp down her disappointment, figuring if it was meant to be they wouldn’t have been so strangely separated. In fact, the strangeness was a tick in favor of _not_ being meant to be. But Meddling Morrigan quickly told Feyre where she could shove her ‘meant to be nonsense.’

Still, she didn’t force the phone number on Feyre, which she is grateful for. Despite her flirtation and momentary infatuation, she’s still gun shy, and Mor is good enough to understand. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to let the issue go. Which is why another text sounds from the phone clenched in her free hand.

**_u r perfect for eachother_ **

**_which I told u_ **

**_and then I was proven right_ **

**_by ur unmitigated chemistry_ **

**so you can spell unmitigated out but not ‘you’**

**_says the girl who uses quotes in casual texts_ **

Feyre rolled here eyes but smiled nonetheless as she responded,

**why are you even awake**

**_gym with Az_ **

**is this thumb day**

**_nah. im on the treadmill. multitasking my child_ **

Before she has a chance to respond, Feyre finds her face smashed against a tightly muscled form covered in a light sheen of sweat that would’ve been gross if not for the violet eyes that glint down at her, “I was hoping we’d run into each other,” he drawls, meticulously drinking in her form before continuing with a smirk, “though I didn’t consider whether we would do so _literally_.”

Feyre frowns, tucking her phone into her pocket and eyeing her miraculously un-spilled coffee mug gratefully. Rhysand drapes his headphones around his neck casually, rolling his shoulders apparently working out the tightness in his muscles, “Not that I’m complaining darling Feyre.”

“I’m glad you’ve decided to accept the fact that I dislike your use of that nickname,” Feyre shoots back, quirking a brow and ignoring the voice that was screaming at her to _stop_ flirting with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome, the same that had scorned Mor’s attempts to get them together over the past month.

“I tried to find you again that day,” he states plainly, casual flirtation gone in the place of something _more_.

“Too bad my best friend isn’t your cousin,” Feyre smirks, taking a sip from her travel mug.

He pauses, studying her carefully, assessing, before speaking again, “I had a feeling I should leave the terms of our next meeting up to you. Or fate.”

With that, the crosswalk light changes and Feyre makes to move with the growing crowd of morning commuters when Rhysand places a gentle hand on her arm, expression uncharacteristically vulnerable and earnest, “I’d really like to see you again,” he looks down at his well used but obviously designer quality jogging gear before leveling her with a self-deprecating smile, “perhaps when I’m less sweaty.”

Before she can stop herself, Feyre lets her gaze take obvious stock of his muscles and sinews – twice – and responds in a flirtatious voice she thought long gone, “It would be better if we got sweaty _together_.”

Despite her internal debate whether it would be better to throw herself into oncoming traffic rather than deal with the fall out after _that,_ Feyre keeps her expression fiery and doesn’t falter when his eyes rove over her form once more, “I have no objection to that, Feyre darling.”

They’re about to be separated by outside forced again when Rhysand clamps a strong but gentle hand around her wrist, “Let me give you my number,” he pauses, “Please.”

Feyre hesitates and she thinks he can read her fears because he continues, “I won’t expect anything from you – just, so you’re not alone in a strange city.” 

For some reason she believes him, and for some reason, she feels better once his information is in her phone. Better than a practical stranger’s phone number should make her feel.

Both move to leave once her phone is carefully slid into her purse once again, but something feels incomplete, like she doesn’t want to leave or that he should come with her. But Feyre shakes her head at the thought and offers him a small smile and a wave, striding toward the gallery where she should _just_ beat the delivery trucks on arrival times.

It’s only a couple busy hours later that Feyre finds herself being drawn from the back office by the sound of designer shoes echoing on the polished marble floors, “How can I he-“ 

“Hello Feyre, darling.”

“Are you stalking me?”

He laughs. Before this moment, Feyre didn’t know you could be this attracted to a laugh; attracted enough to want to close the distance between them and do unspeakable things to the rippling muscles that she’d been daydreaming about since that morning.

“Considering how we met, I think you’re more likely to be called a stalker,” he practically purrs, stepping toward her.

He’s exchanged his dark jogging clothes for a business-like suit that carefully hugs his lithe form, the buttons of his tieless black dress shirt open at the top, allowing her to _just_ glimpse swirls of dark ink licking his collar bone.

“I was more like a private eye than a stalker,” Feyre counters, crossing her arms over her chest.

Rhysand laughs at that, leaning casually against the shiny white counter, careful not to disrupt the artist biography pamphlets she’d artfully arranged that morning when she was decidedly _not_ thinking of him. “I would argue that point, but I know how my cousin works. She’s difficult to refuse.”

Feyre offers a commiserating but affectionate grin, “Some might say impossible.”

Their eyes are drawn to each other, a comfortable silence descending, one that Feyre finds she’d be content to revisit, or perhaps never leave. But she does, “Can I assume our mutual acquaintance directed you to my place of employment?”

He shakes his head, “Worry not, Feyre darling. My dear cousin Mor has guarded your secrets religiously.”

“So what, you tracked my phone?” Feyre supplies, her smile belying her challenging tone.

“I appreciate the fact that you think so highly of my stealth abilities, but this is merely a happy coincidence,” Rhysand purrs, leaning closer across the space between them.

Not one to be cowed, Feyre mirrors his stance, their faces a breath apart, “Please tell me how I can help you then, _sir_.”

“Professionally, or personally?” he rumbles, Adam’s apple bobbing deliciously in his sinewy neck, eyes darting to her parted lips.

Letting out a frustrated grunt that has Rhysand pulling away, Feyre quickly grabs his lapels and tugs his mouth to hers, ignoring the awkward position because _finallyfinallyfinally_ those sinful lips are caressing hers.

He hesitates only a moment before his hands come to cup her jawline gently as he deepens the kiss.

Desperately, she drags them down toward the end of the counter, and then backwards toward the cozy office tucked in the back, away from prying eyes.

As his lips work their way down the column of her throat, Feyre lets out a sigh she’d wait ‘til later to be embarrassed about and Rhysand kicks the door closed behind them, “I don’t want to make trouble for you.”

Feyre’s fingers spear through his beautifully silken raven locks, “Oh I think you _dream_ about making trouble with me.”

They stumble toward the mercifully empty couch pressed against the far wall and Feyre pulls him down on top of her, “Besides, I’ll call this my lunch break.”

Smirking against her skin, Rhysand mouths his way down her neck toward the top button of her dress. As he slides the catch open, he levels her with a wickedly enticing gaze, “I plan on making use of the full hour.”


	3. Melding schedules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes together

Feyre hears the metro doors open and shut followed by the garbled announcement over the poorly maintained speaker system announcing the next station. She’s just familiar enough with Velaris that she let’s her mind wander until her stop – two more – and her eyes go hazy. 

It’s been more than four months since she moved, and she’s more than glad for the decision to uproot her life – for professional _and_ personal reasons. After her first month, the owner of the Rainbow not only gave her more responsibility at the gallery, but also encouraged her to return to her own art after spotting her sketchbook lying across the front desk one low afternoon.

As for her _personal_ life, Rhysand has been more than she could’ve hoped, much as she hates to admit given Mor’s tendency to gloat and preen whenever the subject comes up. Still she can’t help the small smile that tilts her lips as the doors open and close with a barely there squeak. “Afternoon Feyre, darling.”

She bites back a gasp once the familiar voice and scent of jasmine register with her senses and simply sighs as she leans back into his embrace. “Rhys. You almost got a jab to the nuts.”

“Lovely,” he answers with a smirk, violet eyes sparkling as he turns his gaze toward her.

“I thought you’d be busy all day?” Feyre asks, readying her bags to get off at the next station.

Rhysand crowds behind her – out of necessity but he’s not too disappointed if his nearly scandalous hand placement is anything to go by – and grabs the overhead bar. “Change of plans. Cassian’s covering things and I have news.”

They push through the pressing bodies and find the escalators before Feyre turns over her shoulder to prompt, “Good I hope?”

“Mostly.”

Her sandals are slapping against the cobblestones when Rhys slips his fingers between hers, shifting some of her groceries into his free hand. “Any shot you’ll stop hedging before we get to my apartment?”

“Meddling Mor is coming,” and before she can interrupt to ask when he continues, “ _Tomorrow_.” 

“Oh hells bells,” Feyre grumbles, buzzing the apartment door open and leading the way toward the elevators. “She’ll be intolerable.”

Rhysand chuckles as he punches the button for her apartment and lounges against the elevator wall, their still clasped hands propped against his thigh. “At least on the phone you can hang up and claim bad service.”

“You’ve got to come up with more excuses. She’ll never believe you’d keep a shit provider this long,” Feyre advises as they finally make their way down the hall and into her apartment.

She’d been over the moon the first time she toured it, cement floors, tall ceilings, and exposed brick on one wall made the relatively small space and being a studio more than worth it.

Once they’ve unpacked the bags and tidied up, Feyre sinks back onto the couch and props her feet on the whitewashed table. “What time can we expect the inquisitor?”

He drops down next to her, cat-like grace still irksome, but in a much more _delicious_ way since she’d been on the receiving end of some rather lovely side effects. “Not ‘til the afternoon. I’ll get her in the car. Oh, act surprised.”

Feyre quirks a brow, wondering when exactly she became the victim of a certain pair of cousins’ machinations, but lets the subject drop when Rhys presses his lips to her hairline and lingers. She clears her throat, subtly shifting closer into his space. “So we’ve got a while?”

Rhysand’s dexterous fingers work at the base of her skull in slow, deliberate circles as he hums in agreement. “Quite a while. Could do many things, darling.”

The laugh that bubbles out is sort of choked as the scent of his cologne and just _him_ fills her senses, the steady thrum of his heart beneath her hand, his warm body pressed against hers _just_ so. “I can think of a few.”

His hand stills for a millisecond, almost imperceptibly, his lips dragging down her temple, cheekbone, jaw. “Care to share with the class?”

Their noses are just brushing now, breaths mingling, and Feyre practically growls when she surges forward and presses him to the couch cushions. “How about learning on the job?”

Instead of answering, he pulls her more firmly down over him, hands drifting just under the hem of her dress, but waiting. They’ve done some – _more_ than some – but never quite made it all the way, so every time, he waits, lets her set the pace. And she could love him for it, _does_ love him for it. But right now all she wants is his hands and his – _more than his hands_. 

So before self-consciousness sets in, she pulls a breath away, his swollen lips chasing hers, and tugs her dress clean off, tossing it mindlessly behind her back and counting it as a win that she doesn’t hear a resulting crash.

He’s less hesitant now, running his hands up her back and working his way down her neck and over her chest. Feyre sighs into his ministrations, almost forgetting he’s still fully clothed until her seeking hands meet the straight row of buttons that runs down his sculpted front. 

She pops the first button open and waits for his protest, before opening the next few in quick succession, fingers only trembling slightly as his lips work over her bared skin. 

Once his shirt is fully undone and wrenched from his trousers, he sits forward and releases her only long enough to let the sleeves slip from his arms, then wraps them firmly around her middle and strides toward her bed and settles her against the unmade bed.

Patience waning, Feyre pulls him down right after her, his comforting weight settling against her form as she works his belt free and her fingers stutter over the button and zip.

Rhysand pulls away with a smirk, eyes clouded over, and brushes her hands away, completing the task himself. “Wouldn’t want an accident down there darling. I get the sense you’d like everything in tact.”

Time passes in sighs and groans as they nearly work themselves to a fever pitch, Rhysand biting against her shoulder as her hands tease him, his teeth slipping the delicate straps from her shoulders as his deft fingers work the hooks free.

Soon enough they’re bare before each other, eyes glassy, hair rumpled along with the bedclothes and Feyre’s never seen anything more beautiful than his smile. She’s nestled against the plush pillows when his hands stroke her face gently and his eyes soften further, and he murmurs that he loves her.

She answers in kind as she drags his hips toward hers, shivers running up her spine as he works her pulse point and they work in tandem toward release. Feyre swallows his groans and her fingers drag down his back desperately as they both tumble toward release, breaching the precipice one after another before Rhysand’s muscles give way and he makes to roll to her side.

He’s prevented by her grasping hands that tug him close, remaining cradled between her thighs as their sweat cools and breathing evens out.

Eventually, they shift, mirroring each other, noses inches apart and heads cradled in hands, trading sleepy kisses in the dimming afternoon light. “Stay?”

His eyes spark, hand twining with hers as his fingers brush her collarbone. “Yeah.”

Rumbling stomachs force them from bed within the hour and they prepare an easy dinner with fresh vegetables and fish from the market, each delaying the other with more _pleasurable_ employments enough that they’re eating much later than necessary.

By the time they’ve eaten and had dessert and then _dessert_ it’s past midnight and Feyre is loath to see Rhysand go so she tugs him back to the mussed sheets when he glances around for his scattered clothes. “Stay?”

Rhysand laughs, pressing his lips to hers messily before grasping around for a pillow to settle behind his head. “You sure?”

Feyre lays a blistering kiss on his mouth and counteracts it with a harsh shove to his shoulder, “ _No_ I’m not. That’s why I asked, prick.”

“Your biting sarcasm is like a lover’s sonnet, darling,” Rhysand answers with an affected sigh, dropping back onto the bed dramatically.

Feyre sleeps soundly, waking once in the early hours and remembering her friendly bedfellow, which means she wakes _him,_ which means all together she’s only slept a handful of scattered hours when a few definitive knocks sound at her door near lunch time.

Grumbles sound from the opposite side of the bed as Rhysand’s arms attempt to band around her middle, and she nearly lets him pull her back, surrendering to his heated lips on her shoulder when three more definitive knocks sound. 

She rolls over to face him and kisses him soundly, drawing a moan from his throat when she pulls away. “I’ll be back for more.”

After rummaging around for some shred of wearable clothing, she settles on the old worn cotton robe hanging in her armoire and pulls her fingers through her _tousled_ hair a few times before peering through the peep hole. “What the fu-”

“Lovely to see you too Feyre,” a chirpy voice calls from the hallway, “Or hear I suppose? You do have a colorful vocabulary.”

“Tell ‘m to go away,” Rhysand calls from the kitchen where it smells as if he’s puttering around with her coffeemaker.

With a shrug, Feyre wrenches the door open and finds herself immediately enveloped in Mor’s embrace. “I’m being a good friend and letting the glorious love bite on your neck go until later.”

Feyre lands a sharp pinch to Mor’s waist when Rhysand finally strides from the kitchen, bag of coffee beans in hand, “Who was it – ”

She’s turning around to deliver a snarky reply when Mor drawls, unimpressed, “It’s your cousin, who now needs bleach for her eyeballs.”


End file.
